


The Point

by dummythetragedy



Series: Halloween 2017 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Halloween Costumes, I'm Sorry, John's Oblivious, M/M, Molly deserves so much better and I'm sorry, Sherlock in Love, its a terrible case, puns, that damn uniform kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 09:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dummythetragedy/pseuds/dummythetragedy
Summary: Sherlock doesn't at all understand why he puts so much effort into keeping John pleased. And then he does.





	The Point

**Author's Note:**

> I thought of the mystery last minute and, yes, it is absolute shit but the complexity of the case is not the point.

“So, um. What do you think?”

Sherlock blinks at her. He thinks that he hasn’t been listening, but if Molly catches wind of that he’ll be accused of behaving terribly rudely. He’s been working on that, to a degree. And John’s here. He can’t slip up on his politeness _now_ , he’ll never hear the end of it.

Of course, he could always ignore him. Very easily, as his current situation proved. But that isn’t the point. He’s still working out what exactly the point of making John happy is. It’s an important one, he’s almost positive.

“Yes,” Sherlock chances, with an inquisitive glance in John’s direction. A mild amount of surprise could be seen on the man’s face, but no annoyance or disappointment. The worry Sherlock had been feeling ceases its gnawing on his stomach. Good.

Molly’s overtly pleased as well, “Oh! Wow, uh- Great! I- I’ll see you, then. There, I mean. Seven o’ clock. Or was it- Here,” She thrusts a card into his hands, smile falling and rising on her pink face like a bipolar sun, “I’ll just... Bye!” She flees through the mortuary doors at a pace that’s nearing a sprint, her hair flying chaotically behind her, freed from its usual ponytail bonds.

He should probably deduce whatever the hell it is he’s just agreed to. Sherlock frantically examines the card in his grip; An unsightly orange cardstock with purposely tacky, purple font and cheesily scary creatures littering the front. An invitation. To a _Halloween_ party.

John begins walking over to him, giving him only seconds to smother the urge to childishly fling the invite across the room and into the trash can.

“Didn’t think you were into that kind of thing,” John prompts, eyeing the obnoxious card with a poorly repressed smile.

Sherlock is not. At all. That little factoid is now information that John is not allowed to learn, ever. However, it’s probable that lying would also ruin his mannerly streak. Even if he does do it exceedingly well- No. Not _the point_.

He goes for a safe subject change, “Did Lestrade give you the victim’s police records?”

“Yeah,” John passes his coffee over to his non-dominant hand to fetch the manilla folder out from under his arm, “Nothing all that out of the ordinary. A bit of vandalism. Stole a car when he was fifteen.”

“Vandalism?” Sherlock repeats, flipping through the file. Ah, there it is- Oh. Vandalised a taxidermy shop five months ago. That makes this case rather open and shut- No. No, that is _far_ too obvious. It’s a setup, in all likelihood.

“Do you think so?”

Has he been talking out loud? Evidently. He clears his throat, “Unless our murderer is as dull as a spoon. And they can’t be, considering a human being hasn’t been this successfully taxidermied since El Negro in the eighteen hundreds. None of the skin is torn, neat seams. It’s really quite-”

John coughs behind his fist, shaking his head.

“Not good. Okay,” Sherlock nods, brusquely.

“We’re paying _Get Stuffed_ a visit, then?” John asked, reading the report over Sherlock’s shoulder, “Should we stop by a costume shop on the way?”

He’s not going. “Maybe,” He grits out, with no small amount of difficulty. Being nice is exhausting.

The two of them are still two stores down from _Get Stuffed_ ’s when the wafting stench reaches them. It smells significantly worse than the mortuary at Bart’s, though it's only a more severe version of the hospital’s usual odor; Chemicals and rot.

“ _God_ ,” John shudders with revulsion, covering his nose up with his sweater, “Imagine being the poor assholebugger working in that sandwich shop.”

Sherlock looks at the unfortunately placed eatery next to the taxidermist’s, _Punpernickel_ , locking eyes with a young employee washing the interior window who, indeed, appears to very much so hate his life.

They arrive in front of the shop’s entry, John taking a moment to brace himself and pull the sweater politely off of his nose before they walk in. Sherlock gags, eyes watering.

“I can’t do this,” John mutters, sounding only moments away from vomiting. Sherlock’s not much better off. He’s about to voice his idea to let Lestrade handle this one, when a woman in her forties greets them with a wide smile and the name Robin on the tag on her shirt.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” Robin’s mouth opens abnormally widely when she speaks, not bothered in the slightest by the stink of her establishment, “What can I help you with today?”

He and John slump with hesitant acceptance to be surrounded by the fetor of decay for the next few minutes. Sherlock’s face pinches with suffering as he parts his lips to speak, “Owen Barley. Know him?”

Her lips pursing and eyes narrowing behind her large, clear framed glasses answer the question before her words can, “Oh, yeah. I know him. Broke into my shop once and wrecked the place once, the old bastard. He’s been running _Punpernickel_ since before I knew what taxidermy was,” John adorably scribbles that information down in a notepad. Adorably? Moving on, “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

That’s an odd amount of concern for an enemy. John, of course, doesn’t write that down though.

“No,” Sherlock says, “He’s dead.”

He takes advantage of her trying to process that and slips past her to examine the innards of the store. Dead animal, dead animal, cash register, dead animal, stack of paper, dead animal… He picks the papers up off of the checkout table. Dust clings tellingly to the front of the first job application in the pile. He shuffles through to read all of the names. A Lestrade? Coincidence. There are a few Hooper’s as well; It isn’t relevant.

“Quite the, erm, popular spot, isn’t it?” Sherlock poked, waving the stack of applications in Robin’s direction.

She’s still pale, but not entirely useless, as it turns out, “Oh. Um. Not r-really, I’m afraid. That’s why I can’t hire anyone; Business is pretty shit. I can barely afford to pay _me_.”

John writes that down. Smiling would be inappropriate, Sherlock forcibly reminds himself.

“What happened to him?” She asks, swallowing and cleaning off her glasses with trembling hands. It’s not a guilty tremble, Sherlock notes. He also notes that she’s a just breath away from going into shock, and he can’t have that. It’s best to keep the details from her.

“Unimportant. Do you have any other enemies aside from Mr. Barley?”

She laughs, the action shaky and slightly hysterical, “I wouldn’t say we’re _enemies-_ ”

He clears his throat with a toss of his eyes. Afterwards, he can only hope that John hadn’t seen.

“Right,” Robin puts her glasses back on her face, “Well, anyone on this street really. I’m not very beloved amongst the other business owners. As you probably guessed.”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirms, the prolonged exposure to the stench not making it even the slightest fraction more tolerable.

John makes a sound that tells him that wasn’t the right thing to say and Sherlock nearly puts his head through a wall.

Robin crosses her arms, a bit back to herself, “Why do you ask?”

“Don’t worry about that for now,” Sherlock advises, still berating himself and the uptight society of London, “Worry about-”

“Is that,” She interrupts him. _Very_ rudely, but John says nothing to _her_. Sherlock glares at nothing and everything. She sees the unmissable scowl, “Sorry. But, is that what I think it is?”

Robin grabs the loud, orange card out from Sherlock’s outer trench coat pocket. He’d been hoping it would fall out. She smiles a watery smile.

“Guess I’ll be seeing you again tonight, then,” She says, trembling hands holding the card back out to him, “What was your name?”

“What’s yours?” He demands, a terrible realization striking him.

“Robin,” She responds, “Robin Hooper.”

John’s furious scrawling on his notepad is the symphony accompanying the dread that mercilessly attacks every cell in Sherlock’s body. He groans, manners be damned. Now he bloody _has_ to go.

He refuses to buy an entirely new, _festive_ costume. It’s stupid. Everything about this situation is stupid.

“Stop complaining!” John shouts from the second floor of their flat.

Sherlock pokes his head out of his bedroom closet to reply, “Stop eavesdropping!”

He turns back around to examine his options. He can’t wear his cop disguise on the off chance that Gavin shows up and finds out that it was Sherlock that stole his old uniform. Fireman? Too sexualized. Priest? Never again. If he can’t find anything to wear he’s not going-!

“Sherlock!”

Ugh. He hates this. He angrily puts on his previously discarded outfit and fixes himself in the mirror. _There_.

John’s footsteps can be heard stomping down the stairs. Sherlock huffs, grabbing his phone and shoving the device into his pocket before heading in the direction of the front door.

He opens the door right as John catches up to him. “You’re not wearing a costume,” He accuses.

Sherlock pops the collar of his trench coat up, whirling around with a flourish, “I’m going as Sherlock Holmes-” He freezes, all of the moisture in his mouth vanshing.

John adjusts the sleeves of his military uniform, a look that positively _screams_ disapproval leveled at Sherlock, “You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb- Are we trying to blend in or not?”

Sherlock would not call what John’s doing blending in. He can’t very well say that, though. Why not? An important reason, he’s sure. He drops his gaze before he can think too much about it, “I am blending. I- I’m going as a detective.”

John snorts, walking into the living room to grab two things that Sherlock doesn’t immediately take notice of, because his attention is otherwise occupied. He returns to slap a deerstalker onto Sherlock’s head and a magnifying glass into his hand.

“Okay. Now you’re a detective,” John thinks he’s hilarious. Sherlock refuses to admit that he agrees.

Molly’s the one that answers the door upon their arrival. Initially, she looks absolutely thrilled. That glee fades considerably upon noticing John’s presence. Sherlock can’t relate.

“Hi,” She attempts to maintain a falsified cheer, “Sherlock. You came. And- And,” She fails, “And you brought John. Of course you brought John. What was I expecting? Silly. Stupid…” Molly continues speaking even as she stumbles away from both the door and them.

He looks over to John, who doesn’t appear to be all that upset, so Sherlock pushes the encounter out of his mind and joins the Hooper family Halloween party with his investigative hat on. Literally.

“Do you want a drink?” John inquires, eyeing the refreshments table. Or, more accurately, the vampiress currently standing at the refreshments table.

“No,” Sherlock sniffs, jaw clenching on its own accord. He doesn't have time for this. What is ‘this’, exactly? Oh! Oh. Jealousy… Not good. Especially not right now, in the middle of a case-

John abandons him. _In the middle of a case._ But that’s fine; He’s _fine_. He’s working.

Sherlock stands up straight and sifts through the room of Hooper’s until he’s found Robin. Whom is dressed as a hippie and is absolutely _sloshed_. He grimaces, unhappily approaching her.

“Hey! It’s you!” She greets, diving in to wrap an arm around him, that he expertly dodges, “Hey _you._ Do you want a drink?”

He’s very tired of that question. “Who’s this?” He asks, inclining his head at the frowning young man under her arm. Sherlock knows him; The depressed window washer from earlier.

Robin gives the boy a tight squeeze, “My nephew. My little _angel_. My genius-”

“Yes, alright,” The teenager cuts her off, looking a great deal more hateful than the average, angst riddled teen, “It’s Parker.”

Parker. Parker Hooper. The name on no less than three of those job applications. And the close relative of an experienced taxidermist; So, he very obviously knows a thing or two. He’s resentful towards the aunt, because of her refusing to hire him. He takes a job close to her work, kills off a man that would be directly tied to her- _God_ , how _boring_. This has to be the easiest case he’s solved in over five years. The answers were practically spoon fed to him, for heaven’s sake. He’s attending a bloody costume party for _this_ drivel? Anderson could’ve solved this.

He sighs, a sneer on his face, “Great.” He leaves them be, racking his brain for a way to make this interesting. There isn’t one, plain and simple. The most fun he can have with it is a dramatic reveal, but with everyone spread out around the house as they are, it wouldn’t be nearly satisfying-

A Molly doppleganger, older by about twenty years, clinks a glass with a metal spoon, “Dinner’s on the table!”

Ah. That’s a much better setting.

He joins everyone in their journey to the dining room, John finding him as he finds a seat, sitting down beside him.

“No luck with the vampire?” Sherlock sounds only slightly more bitter than intended.

“Hm?” John mumbles while loading his plate, an attractive flush high in his cheeks, “Oh, her. Some, I suppose. I wasn’t expecting a Hooper family gathering to be so…” He trails off, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “I don’t know, I usually don’t celebrate. This is- It’s… nice.”

Sherlock is about to say how well and good all of that is and then stand up to perform his dramatic arrest on Parker Hooper. But the tone of John’s voice has him hesitating. Which makes no sense whatsoever. Sure, John’s having fun. Why does that matter if he’s not having fun with Sherlock?

He’s utterly sick of all of this internal struggle. He decides it's time to figure out what the hell is wrong with him so he can move on from it and get back to doing what he actually wants to do all of the time. Why does John’s opinion of him matter? What is the ruddy _point_ of keeping him happy?

The two seconds he considers texting Mycroft to ask him are quickly erased from his mind. It’s not rocket science (he would’ve figured that out by now), it’s emotions, it’s- it’s-

Sentiment.

John takes the time to throw a few food items on Sherlock’s plate, and Sherlock nearly flips the table.

Of course it’s sentiment; Sherlock isn’t lucky enough to be dealt something _easy_ to get rid of.

John nudges him, “You’d better eat something. It’s been more than fifty hours; Can’t have you passing out on the clock.”

Sherlock doesn’t tell him that he can go more than three days without food before fainting occurs. He simply picks up his fork. Because, in all honesty, he isn’t sure what else to fucking do.

 _Sentiment_. Shit.


End file.
